


Straggletag

by Sunfreckle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Storyteller (TV)
Genre: A fairy tale/short story hybrid, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Enjolras is a prince but don't worry he still hates the monarchy, First Meetings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, With brick references because I am impossible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 23:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14067630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: This is a story of princes and kings, of friends and servants, of disguises and dances, but most of all it is a story about two young men who met under the strangest of circumstances.A fandom fairy tale based on “Sapsorrow”, the version as I know it from Jim Henson’s (and Anthony Minghella) The Storyteller, which is basically a combination of “Cinderella” and “All-kinds-of-fur” from the brothers Grimm.





	Straggletag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tonks22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonks22/gifts).



> Written for the lovely Tonks, who bid on my pledged offer of one “fandom fairy tale” for the Bishop Muriel Charity Auction and who was kind enough to trust me that this would be a fairy tale suited to the revolutionary and the cynic.
> 
> With a lot of thanks to my darling sister who betaed and helped me to adapt the plot.

 

It is very proper for a story such as this to begin with a prince. How fortunate then that Enjolras, heir to the throne of a thriving kingdom, was a very proper prince indeed. His hair seemed spun from sunlight, his features were very near flawless and he was as bright of mind as he was of eye. The only child of a King and Queen of great renown, he had inherited from them not only a discerning mind, but also a very kind heart. Prince Enjolras was all this and yet, he was not happy.

His parents died when he was still far too young to rule and his uncle, an intelligent man with a strict sense of duty, became regent in his stead. He ruled well and he loved Enjolras, but he did not see that as Enjolras became older, he also became more unhappy.

Every day that his uncle led him past the portraits of his beloved, late parents and spoke of Enjolras following in their footsteps, the young prince grew more dejected. And with every lesson in ruling, politics and statesmanship he was taught, he grew more dissatisfied. Because Prince Enjolras loved his family, loved his country and loved his people, but he could not love the title he bore or the throne and crown that were to be his inheritance.

When Enjolras first spoke the words “I don’t want to be king,” he was not yet seventeen and his uncle did not take him seriously.

“That is what you say now,” he told him smilingly. “But I know you, Enjolras, you would never abandon your country.”

It was very true that this was the last thing Enjolras wanted. But the older he grew and the more he learned, the more convinced he was that to become king _would_ be to abandon his country. To abandon all chance of true freedom for its people and with it all chance of happiness. So the next time Prince Enjolras said “I don’t want to be king,” he said it with the weight of an informed mind and this time his uncle did not smile.

“It is your duty,” he replied firmly. “I will not hear this from your lips again.”

But he did, because Enjolras had made up his mind and he would not be swayed. His uncle’s disagreement did not intimidate him, his teachers’ lessons did not convince him, the passing years did not wear him down. And when Prince Enjolras turned twenty-one years old and the whole court looked eagerly forward to his coronation, his opinion was still the same.

He sat in his room, listening to his uncle speak of duty, honour and tradition and said nothing until he burst forth:

“Uncle, don’t you hear what you are saying?”

He rose to his feet, eyes snapping fire and for the first time in his life the regent was effectively silenced by his nephew.

“Hundreds of hours of work,” Enjolras spoke indignantly. “Dedicated to celebrating me taking on an office that I do not want and that is yet an inevitability. Why should it be celebrated? Gold and silk woven into cloth while there are people dressed in rags. Feasts prepared with more food than anyone could eat, while there are people that can scarcely feed their families! I shall not be a part of it. If I do take the throne, it will be to abolish it forever.”

The regent stood very still for a moment and in the distress on his face Enjolras thought he recognised the man that had let him slide off the bannisters as a little boy, whose smile so very much resembled the vague memory he had of his mother’s. But then his uncle shook his head and said:

“I won’t speak to you when you are in such a mood. The coronation shall take place as planned. You have been prepared to be king and you will be prepared for the coronation.”

So while the servants polished the silver and the tailors cut the cloth and sewed the ermine, Enjolras stayed shut up in his room. His temper was now as foul as his face was fair and his mind more troubled than it had ever been. He could not disgrace his heritage, but his heritage was a disgrace. He could not turn his back on his people, but he could not place himself above them. There was no way out.

All at once Enjolras’ mind cleared. The heaviness did not lift from his shoulders, but the lead did drain from his shoes. If he stayed here, he had to be king. This humiliating coronation would go ahead and be a drain on his people. His uncle would not take him seriously in his refusal to take the throne, so Enjolras would have to make him take him seriously.

With the quickness that always came over him once he had made a decision Enjolras slipped out of his chambers. He made his way through the rarely used corridors of the palace and down to the stables.

“Evening, Your Highness!”

“Good evening, Gavroche,” Enjolras smiled at the stable boy.

“Long time since you’ve been down here,” Gavroche hummed. His pockets were filled with stolen treats that were meant for the royal horses, but so they always were and Enjolras always pretended not to see.

“How are your brothers and sisters?” he enquired.

“Well enough,” Gavroche replied guardedly.

“That is good to hear,” Enjolras nodded. “I have a favour to ask of you.”

The boy slanted his head curiously and waited.

“I need clothes to disguise myself,” Enjolras told him gravely. “I cannot look at all like myself. Can you help me with that?”

Gavroche’s young eyes spoke many questions, but he merely nodded. “Of course, Your Highness. When do you need them?”

“As soon as may be,” Enjolras said, because the unpleasant is never good to delay. “I will pay you for your trouble, of course.”

“I should hope so, Your Highness,” Gavroche said, flashing him an impish grin. “I’ll get you everything you need before sunrise, cross my heart!”

And with that he darted past Enjolras with the quick, nimble movements of someone very used to going places where they’re not supposed to go. Enjolras himself returned to his room and waited there, grave and silent, but his resolve never wavering.

True to his word, before the sun had even begun to turn the horizon grey, Gavroche startled the prince with a knock on the door. He came in with a large bundle of ragged clothes, the fabrics either rough or worn to thinness and every piece so far removed from Enjolras’ usual attire that the prince would scarcely have called them clothes.

“Thank you, Gavroche,” Enjolras said soberly.

“Of course, Your Highness,” the boy replied, eyeing him curiously.

“Run along home,” Enjolras told him. “And take this for yourself and your siblings.” And he gave him a purse full of coins. No gold or silver pieces, only copper, so that the boy would not be accused of stealing when he tried to use them.

The stable boy bowed and disappeared on silent feet, leaving the prince to his last preparations.

He had packed everything he thought he might need and would be able to carry. In the bundle he had also hidden the plainest of his princely clothes. It was embarrassing how rich they still were compared to the clothes he now held in his hands. These seemed truly hardly more than rags to him. But Enjolras put them on all the same. He dressed himself in layer upon layer of rags, until there was nothing left of his figure. His golden locks he twisted up, hiding them under a workman’s cap in such a way that not a glimmer of gold showed. Then he took a hand full of ashes from the fireplace and rubbed them into his skin, turning his warm complexion dull and grey.

When he looked in the mirror, Enjolras did not recognize himself and he was as proud as he was mournful.

By that time, the sun dawned on another day and the servants, who had been up for hours, began to prepare to wake the court.

The regent rose early and with good reason. The preparations for the coronation were picking up speed, today his nephew would need to be fitted by the tailors.

“Do wake the prince, if he has not risen already,” he commanded. “I expect he can be found in his book room if he is not in his chambers.”

But Enjolras was not to be found in either place. Not in his chambers, not in the library, not in the gardens. Not anywhere. At first it was only the servants who looked, but soon the courtiers joined and at last the regent himself ran about the halls calling the prince’s name.

All to no avail.

No one paid any attention to the shabby young workman slipping away in the jostle of courtiers and servants. He walked with his head bowed low and not one of the people spared him a second glance. Through the corridors he went, down the steps, out into the morning sunshine and gone from everyone’s sight.

~

Thus he fled, the unhappy prince, his past discarded and his future quite unknown.

One thing Enjolras did know, however. He knew where to go. To stay in his own country, even disguised as he was, could not be safe. One of the neighbouring countries would have to be his destination then and there was only one close enough that he knew the language of with sufficient proficiency.

So to this neighbouring kingdom he went. Travelling with anyone that was willing to help him, walking when no such help could be found. The journey was hard on Enjolras, but he was strong and, moreover, he was determined, so he did not dwell on it.

Once arrived in the foreign land he decided that he must find work. As a prince his life had mostly been one of study, but now he had to earn a living he found that what he had been taught he could not use. The talents he might have used to support himself, his eloquence, his knowledge, even his looks, were all things that would betray his secret. And whenever people asked him “what can you do?” Enjolras had hardly anything to say for himself and he was quickly sent away.

Finally, a friendly gardener from a small estate took pity on the grave young man and told him:

“Why don’t you try your luck at the royal court? You’re young and strong and clearly willing to work. There is always work at the palace. Especially with the king and queen so recently retired and His Majesty Grantaire the new king not at all happy about it. Even if you can do nothing but clean, there will be more than enough mess to clean there to keep you busy!”

Enjolras knew very little of the new king. Prince Grantaire had always been abroad, studying or travelling. His uncle had never spoken well of him, but that was something Enjolras would not mind. He was a little resentful that he should have run away from court only to enter another one, but if there was no work to be found elsewhere it would have to do. So Enjolras thanked the old man sincerely, wished him good luck with his flowers, and set off for the court.

There he was deemed far too slight for the stables, and far too scruffy to work above stairs, but the cook said immediately:

“I can always use an extra pair of hands, in the kitchens anyone can make themselves useful.”

That it would take him a good while to actually _become_ useful, Enjolras was made painfully aware of. He was slow and clumsy, always lagging behind a step or two and so unused to the rough work that his back ached and his hands cramped. And because he looked as messy as he was slow and because he would give no one his name, the cook nicknamed him “Straggletag” and all the other servants followed.

So instead of Prince Enjolras, there was Straggletag. Straggletag who fetched water, Straggletag who scrubbed the floors, Straggletag who washed and cleaned and was ordered about by every servant around the place. But Enjolras did not mind, because he thought of his own court and the nameless servants that ran it, and felt that he no more than deserved this.

After a while the work did not seem so hard anymore though and Enjolras began to have time to observe what was going on around him. The kind gardener had spoken very sensibly; the court was full of disorder. The young king seemed to have very little idea of how to actually run a court. Whatever chaos went on upstairs was promptly carried below stairs by the servants and Enjolras listened to it all with growing confusion. Because despite all this continual disarray and the endless stream of confused orders, all the servants spoke of their master with a degree of affection that made Enjolras wonder. There was much less reverence in their speeches than he would have expected, but much more genuine tenderness.

This was baffling to Enjolras, because from what he could learn about the king, Grantaire neglected most of his royal duties, had a terrible apathy towards matters of state and far too big a fondness for wine.

If Enjolras had uttered these thoughts to any member of Grantaire’s court, they would have defended their king most passionately. There was only one person who would have agreed with him wholeheartedly and that was the young king himself. He had really liked his life as a prince a great deal better than his life as a king. Which was why – on a rainy and drab morning – Grantaire slipped away from his advisors, just like he had evaded his teachers as a boy, and went down to the royal kitchens.

There he snuck through the rooms with the ease of familiarity and stole straight into the pantry, where Straggletag just so happened to be turning the apples.

It was impossible to tell which one of the two was more startled, but Grantaire certainly recovered the fastest. Seeing the servant before him immediately direct his gaze towards the floor made him hastily burst forth:

“I’m sorry to disturb you in your work!”

He laughed awkwardly, glancing at the shelf of fruit behind Straggletag. “And, I suppose, for coming down here to pilfer your apples.”

Straggletag did not dare to look straight into Grantaire’s face, but he saw enough of the king’s pleasant smile to sincerely wonder how differently the royalty was used to treating their servants in this kingdom. “Shall I fetch one of the cooks, Your Majesty?” he asked uncertainly.

Grantaire started back. “Oh no! I only wanted an apple. There’s an hour yet before the lunch preparations need to begin, I would hate to bother anyone now.”

Not knowing how to answer this and quite taken by surprise by the young king’s knowledge of the kitchen schedules, Straggletag bowed silently and took one of the ripest apples. He offered it to Grantaire, who took it with another smile.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said and because he was very certain he had never seen this young man before and it made him uneasy to see him shrink before him like this, he added: “I do not usually make a habit of bothering people at their work, you know.”

“I’m sure it’s no bother, Your Majesty,” Straggletag replied respectfully, but he could not help thinking that it was ironic that Grantaire, who so clearly did not care for his own duties, would be so concerned about disturbing someone else’s.

Grantaire, meanwhile, had heard the foreign accent in the servant’s voice and asked curiously: “You are new to the court, are you not? What is your name?”

His tone betrayed genuine interest and for the first time Enjolras feared it might not be enough of an answer when he replied: “Everyone calls me Straggletag.”

Sure enough, a frown immediately clouded Grantaire’s smiling face. “Is that what you want to be called?”

“I do not mind it,” he replied honestly.

“Well then…” The smile reappeared on Grantaire’s face. “What a joy to meet you, Straggletag. And how kind of you to indulge me while I’m hiding from my advisors.”

As Straggletag still carefully avoided his gaze, Grantaire did not see the spark of disapproval in his eyes and because he did not trust himself to speak, Straggletag merely bowed again.

Grantaire smiled one more time, eyes bright but rather tired, and said: “I will leave you to your endeavours, as they are far more worthy than mine, good day Straggletag.” And with that he left the pantry, hoping to have put the new servant at ease, but instead leaving Enjolras severely puzzled.

~

It shouldn’t be surprising that Straggletag thought more about Grantaire than Grantaire thought about Straggletag. But the next time they met in the kitchen hallways Grantaire did recognize him and he called him by his name.

“Your Majesty,” Straggletag said in reply and he meant to bow and move on, but Grantaire turned towards him like he wanted to say more and so he waited.

Grantaire did not speak after all, because he did not know what to say. There was not one of his servants so poorly dressed as Straggletag and it distressed him, but he was not at all sure if asking about it was the right thing to do. He rarely felt sure of what was the right thing to do.

“Can I fetch you something, Your Majesty?” Straggletag asked uncertainly, wondering if Grantaire was perhaps just hiding down here. Dodging his responsibilities again.

“No, no,” Grantaire shook his head.

“Are you hiding again?” Straggletag shut his mouth, but the words were spoken before he could stop them. To his surprise, Grantaire laughed.

“I suppose so,” he said with a grimace. “I usually am.”

Enjolras had learned to work, but he had not unlearned to speak his mind. And since Grantaire answered him with honesty, he asked with equal frankness: “Why would you hide from your own people?” If one had to be a ruler, the least one could do was take it seriously.

Grantaire was certainly surprised to be spoken to in such a way, but still not at all offended. “They have so many questions,” he sighed. “And I do not know how to answer them.” The young king shook his head. “I wish they would not look to me for the answers.”

This was so foreign a wish to Enjolras, that he actually lifted his eyes to Grantaire’s face in incredulity. But Grantaire was not looking at him now, he eyes were cast down sombrely.

“Who am I to make all these decisions?”

Enjolras blinked in surprise.

Grantaire shook his head sadly. “I have done nothing to deserve this confidence in my abilities. Each and every one of my advisors is more competent than I am. My parents are good and kind, but the kingdom was not free of problems while they ruled it and I fear it will only get worse with me in charge. They have left for their summer palace, in an attempt to startle me into competence.”

He smiled wryly and looked up at Straggletag again, who lowered his head quickly.

“There are too many matters to tend to I cannot even begin to comprehend,” Grantaire sighed. “And out of all of them, my country's biggest problem is me.”

Enjolras listened to him silently, suddenly wondering if he would have been more like Grantaire if his parents had lived to raise him instead of his uncle. “I…I am sure that isn’t true, Your Majesty,” he said and his voice came out much softer than before.

A merry spark jumped into Grantaire’s eye and he laughed. “Ah, does that mean I am not a problem, or that the problems I will have to solve are so big they eclipse even me?” He felt Straggletag startle at that and to spare him having to think of a reply he could reasonably give, Grantaire added cheerfully: “It does not matter in any case, I will raise a glass and drink to better times.”

That was where their conversation ended, but not before it had taken away Enjolras’ disproval of Grantaire. He still did not quite understand him and his behaviour continued to surprise him, but Enjolras could no longer dislike the young king for his strange habits. Instead he began to think of him, if not with fondness, with genuine concern. And perhaps Grantaire felt this somehow, because he found himself going down the kitchens nearly as often as he used to do as a child, wandering into the scullery at odd hours and stopping to talk to Straggletag whenever he met him there.

Straggletag in turn listened so attentively to him that Grantaire ended up talking longer every time they spoke. He spoke of his studies abroad, the friends he had met there he missed, the friends he had here he delighted in and the many responsibilities that troubled him.

What troubled him, Enjolras now understood, was not that he had these responsibilities, but that he did not know how to discharge them. Enjolras was not vain enough to believe he had all the answers to Grantaire’s problems. But he was certain he had suggestions that might help, or would at least give Grantaire’s council a chance to improve their current course of action. Perhaps he was more homesick for his old life than he had realized, or perhaps it was truly the tired worry on Grantaire’s face that kept him up at night. Whichever it was, Enjolras found himself earnestly wishing that he had some way to speak to Grantaire as an equal. It was no use for Straggletag to counsel King Grantaire, that was preposterous. But it was abundantly clear that Grantaire did need counsel.

Luckily Enjolras was not the only one at the court concerned for Grantaire’s well-being. At that very moment Joly and Bossuet, two young nobles and Grantaire’s closest friends, were earnestly discussing if there was anything they could do to lift their friend’s spirits.

“The country cannot be ruled with melancholy,” Joly said seriously, linking his arm through Bossuet’s as they strolled through the palace gardens.

“No indeed, he must be conducted towards cheerfulness before he can conduct the country,” Bossuet agreed.

How to do this was not easily decided, but the two nobles finally settled on giving a ball. Grantaire was always most at ease in cheerful company and with wine and food and dancing and the two of them to attend him, there was a good chance they could make his good mood last.

The thought of a ball was delightful to Grantaire and he agreed to it instantly. The very next day the preparations began and, of course, the cook was among the very first to be informed. This signalled the beginning of such fussing and fretting, such planning and hurrying, that none of the servants had a moment’s rest. This, of course, included Enjolras, but while he worked he did have time to think. And what he thought was that this ball would be full of strangers. The servants were all aflutter about how big it would be. There was talk of invitations being sent out to nobles from all over the kingdom as well as from neighbouring countries. At such a ball one more stranger would not draw attention. Perhaps, Enjolras thought, if he could attend the ball, he could actually talk to Grantaire as an equal. Even if it was only for one night, perhaps it would be enough to help him.

So on the night of the ball, in all the crowding confusion, Straggletag slipped away unseen. And off came the dark cap, letting golden curls tumble down. Off came the rags, revealing slender limbs. Water washed away the greying ash and with a strange fondness he had never felt before, Enjolras took out the fine clothes he had stashed away for so long.

~

In honour of the ball the palace was lit up like the heavens themselves. Festive light poured from every window, as if the very stars had been unhooked from the firmament and been placed around in the guise of candles. In the midst of all this brilliant light, the royal musicians played their finest music. And what a sight the noble guests all made. Their clothes were as colourful as their characters, their smiles even more dazzling than their jewels and young King Grantaire danced among them, in higher spirits than he had been in many months. Surrounded by so much cheerfulness he grew cheerful himself and he had the added pleasure of seeing his two friends, usually the life of the party, both in a nervous flutter. It seemed they had just made the acquaintance of a foreign noblewoman that managed to dazzle the both of them so sincerely that neither of them had eyes for anyone other than her.

Which was why they were probably the only people at the entire ball who did not notice when a late arrival entered the ballroom. A young man, in a scarlet coat that clung to his figure exactly, with the air of nobility both preceding and trailing behind him. His hair, which shone like the golden sun, was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck and his eyes were so bright that they nearly startled the whole room to silence.

And every eye looked without suspicion, because nobody recognized poor Straggletag and nobody knew Prince Enjolras by sight.

Nearly every young noble blushed to be looking upon such beauty, but the stranger had eyes for no one but the king. Grantaire was no less overwhelmed than the rest of the company, but when the young man approached him, he did manage to find his voice.

“I do not remember sending invitations to the rulers of the sky to send down one of their own to attend my party,” he said.

His guest answered with a hesitant smile and after a short pause said, in a foreign language nonetheless well known to Grantaire: “You will forgive me, I hope, for coming uninvited then…”

“Forgive you?” Grantaire laughed. He felt he had no more right to forgive this picture of beauty and elegance than he had right to blame him, but around them the next dance was called and in a burst of exuberance he said: “There is no forgiveness in this world, but the joy we make for ourselves. Will you dance with me?”

“Dancing is equal to joy for you?” the stranger asked doubtfully.

“Very near it,” Grantaire agreed. “But dancing with _you_ …”

To his delight the young man smiled at that, his eyes for a moment sparking even brighter than they already were. He allowed Grantaire to lead him to the floor and they danced.

A sigh went through the company, because amidst all the splendid dancing there was not one couple so well matched. What a joy they were to watch and watched they were.

Neither of them was aware of the company, however, for they were far too engrossed in one another. Because as they danced, they talked. And Grantaire felt himself speaking so freely and openly and receiving such attentive, earnest answers, that he forgot he had met this young man only a handful of moments ago. He certainly forgot his manners, because before he knew it they were arguing with one another in such raised voices that it drew the attention of the other dancers. Even so, something felt so familiar, so perfectly easy and natural to Grantaire, that even though he could not explain it, he was happier dancing with this young man than he had ever been with anyone.

In his arms, Enjolras was no less pleased, but much more confused. He had wanted to talk with Grantaire about the affairs of his country and he did. He asked him cutting questions and gave him detailed replies. But the longer they danced, the closer Enjolras drew towards Grantaire and sometimes, when their eyes met, he forgot what he was speaking of. Nothing of the sort had ever happened to him before and distressing as this should have been, Enjolras could not mind it. Not as long as Grantaire was by his side.

And the young king stayed by his side, dance after dance, course after course. Until finally Enjolras knew he would have to go. He could not stay until the end of the ball. Before the servants had to start their cleaning, he had to be Straggletag once more, back in the kitchen and at work again.

So in an unguarded moment, between changing of dances, Enjolras slipped away from Grantaire.

When the king looked round, his fair companion was gone and no matter whom he asked, no one had seen the stranger slip away. It was only at this moment that Grantaire realized he had never managed to learn his guest’s name. The young king was left mystified. Mystified, and so deeply in love as he had never been in his five and twenty years under the sun.

Enjolras meanwhile had no time to dwell on touching hands or quiet looks. He hurried to shed the Prince and be the Servant again and as soon as he showed his face in the scullery he was put to work. But he smiled while scrubbing, because he had spoken to Grantaire and Grantaire had listened, of that he was sure.

~

To be sure, Grantaire _had_ listened. There was not a word the stranger had spoken to him that he could not repeat to himself and even though he had disagreed and doubted during the dance, this did not stop him from mentioning the subjects to his advisors. Their surprise was great indeed, but not equal to that of Bossuet and Joly’s. This change of energy was more than they could have ever hoped to expect from their ball. _Change_ was the right word. Because not only was Grantaire showing a degree of interest in state affairs he certainly did not before and had opinions and ideas to express that surprised the entire court, he was also acting very strangely. He was lively in company, but was continually shutting himself in his rooms to paint and was often found staring out of windows without anything to say for himself at all.

Luckily it did not take Grantaire’s friends long to conclude that the reason of this change must be attributed to the beautiful stranger with the golden hair and the bright eyes everyone kept talking of. They were very disgruntled that they had not caught even a glimpse of this mysterious man themselves (although Grantaire did not pity them at all considering what their distraction had been). But it certainly seemed like this young noble had not only lifted Grantaire’s spirits, but had also managed to make him think seriously about ruling. Whoever this young man was, he must be brought back to the palace. And since there was no way of finding out who he could be, everyone agreed that the best course of action was to give second ball. The fact that Joly and Bossuet spared only one thought for the fact this would mean the captivating Lady Musichetta would possibly attend again, was a true testament to their friendship.

The announcement of the second ball created considerable consternation in the servants’ quarters.

“Another ball so soon! We’ve scarce recovered from the last one!” the maids lamented.

Enjolras was conflicted. He could see how hard this was on the royal household and it was wholly unnecessary to have another party. But another ball meant an opportunity to see Grantaire again, speak with him again. Because ever since the first ball Grantaire had not shown himself downstairs and for reasons Enjolras could not trace, this gave him a strange, hollow feeling in the back of his chest.

“Straggletag!” the cook snapped. “Stop your dawdling and get on with your work.”

Straggletag started to attention, but before he could do anything more, there was suddenly a smartly dressed footman in the doorway.

“His Majesty the King requests that a selection of pastries be brought up,” he announced haughtily. And then, with considerable uncertainty, added: “And furthermore that…if he is not busy, if…Straggletag can come and bring them?”

Enjolras felt himself flush behind the ashes on his cheeks, not in the least because all the servants positively gaped at him. But nobody dared to argue. The king had asked for Straggletag, so none other than Straggletag was given the plate piled with pastries and made his way upstairs.

“You were able to come!” Grantaire exclaimed when Straggletag entered his rooms, as if he was not only pleased about this, but had actually been anxious about it before.

Straggletag bowed, keeping his gaze low, but not managing to repress a smile. Grantaire’s chambers were extremely messy. “Your Majesty asked for pastries,” he said, placing the plate on the nearest side table.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said with a smile. “I have not seen you at all since the ball.” He sounded genuinely sad about it and Straggletag felt the warmth glowing on his cheeks fill him entirely.

“You have been very busy,” he murmured. “Doing good things.”

“You think so?” Grantaire said and the gladness on his face, the genuine joy over a mere servant's approval, made Straggletag nearly forget himself.

“Everyone is talking about it,” he said earnestly, a little too familiar.

Grantaire smiled, but then his face clouded over again. “But I did go down to the kitchens, you know, only I did not see you there.”

“I…I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” Straggletag hardly knew what else to say.

“No, no! Don’t apologize!” Grantaire said hastily. “Things must be frightfully busy down there.”

Straggletag knew he shouldn’t, but he spoke before he realized it. “It is very busy, to have another ball so soon.”

Grantaire frowned. “Ah, of course. My pleasures must be dearly bought.” He looked doubtful for a moment. “I am too despicably selfish a person to postpone,” he said with a shake of his head. “But,” and his face brightened with a smile, “I can make sure there are extra hands to take up the extra work! Thank you, Straggletag.”

Enjolras did not quite know what to make of this and he did not really have time to dwell on it, but to his surprise there were soon a lot more servants to help in the kitchen. Even among them Straggletag was the shabbiest, but this was the furthest from his mind. No, every thought Enjolras had to spare was for Grantaire and for the approaching ball.

~

The ball, obligingly, did not just approach, it arrived. Once again it was a night full of glittering light and swaying music. Beauties came and beauties went, dances were danced, but this time Grantaire stood alone. Waiting, just as the whole court waited with him, because they all knew who he was waiting for.

The shock was less when the beautiful young man in the scarlet coat arrived, but the curiosity all the greater. Once again the king offered him his hand, once again they danced and once again they talked with such familiarity that it seemed they had known each other for years.

During their previous meeting Grantaire had been mindless of time and Enjolras had been watching the clocks, but now their positions were reversed. Enjolras lost track of the hours as his conversation with Grantaire grew more heated and Grantaire nearly held his breath counting the minutes. Whatever intentions he had had at the start of the night, they were all forgotten now. The handsome stranger was in his arms and those brilliant eyes were fixed on him and Grantaire cared for nothing else.

It was a genuine shock to Enjolras when the clocks began to strike twelve. So late already, he would be missed in the kitchens.

“I must go,” he stammered and Grantaire, who had been dreading this moment, instead of letting go of his hand clasped it tighter and blurted out:

“Don’t! Please.”

Enjolras stared at him and Grantaire’s face flushed. He let go of him immediately and took a step back, nearly bowing his head in embarrassment.

“I did not mean-” he began. “You are free to- Forgive me.”

The bright eyes of the stranger looked back at him helplessly for another moment and then he dashed out of the ballroom, scarlet coat and golden curls and all. Nobody tried to stop him, but Joly and Bossuet immediately drew towards Grantaire.

“Where is he going?” Joly cried out and Bossuet said:

“Please tell me you have at least learned his family name.”

But Grantaire shook his head sadly and the wistfulness that settling over him stayed with him the rest of the evening.

~

The second ball left Enjolras greatly disturbed. Because not only did he feel a great confusion of feelings himself, there were many reports about the king being very despondent. Despite this there were also orders from upstairs that the servants were encouraged to ask if they needed time to rest or go home to their families and the talk of reforms in the kingdom did not cease. Apparently the king's melancholy had not brought back his apathy and Enjolras was glad of it, but increasingly confused. So much so that he nearly drew back when he came upon Grantaire in the palace courtyard one morning when he had just been to fetch water.

Before he could withdraw, however, Grantaire spotted him.

“Straggletag!” he exclaimed and his face lit up so joyfully that Straggletag felt his own face burn, but the lights in Grantaire’s eyes were not quite the same as those for the nameless nobleman.

“Your Majesty,” he bowed.

“How are things in the kitchens?” Grantaire asked. “Not too busy now?”

“Your Majesty is very considerate,” Straggletag nodded, repressing a smile.

“Good,” Grantaire nodded. “Good.”

Straggletag hesitated, but Grantaire looked so strangely wistful that he could not help asking: “Are you alright, Your Majesty?”

“Oh yes,” Grantaire said with a wry smile. “I am well, Straggletag.”

“You do not look it,” he frowned and Grantaire laughed heartily at this.

“That is because I am in love,” he said mournfully. “And a fellow such as myself will never look well when in love. My features are far too pathetic.”

“In love?” Straggletag echoed.

“In love,” Grantaire sighed. “All of it. The glowing cheeks, the racing heart, the ache of his absence, the catch in my breath, the drifting of my thoughts. The whole exquisite misery.”

Those words made Enjolras fall silent for a while. Because of love he felt he knew very little, but glowing cheeks and racing hearts, even catches of breath and drifting thoughts, those he knew. But if Grantaire was in love…

“Who is it you are in love with then?” he asked, eyes on the pails of water standing by his feet.

“The most captivating young man I have ever met,” Grantaire answered sincerely. “I have only met him twice and still I feel like I have known him half a lifetime. He is beyond anything you have ever seen, he is an angel.”

“You love him because he is handsome then?” Straggletag asked, an odd sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Oh no!” Grantaire cried. “He is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. But I forget to look at him when he speaks.” He shook his head. “The world is oddly structured, me being the king and him the nobleman.”

“Perhaps you would not be so enamoured by him if he was not quite so noble,” Straggletag said gravely, but Grantaire shook his head vehemently.

“No, no, were he in the humblest rags, were he the poorest. I would still be drawn to him and no one else, because he would still shine brighter than all of them. And if I was not such a fool and knew where to find him, I would tell him.” Grantaire let out a bitter laugh. “Or perhaps I would not. I am a coward, you know.”

Straggletag said nothing to this and Grantaire gave him a warm smile.

“What about you, Straggletag. Is there no one that makes you feel like this?”

“Sometimes…” Straggletag replied uncomfortably. “But I don’t think I’m in love.”

Grantaire fixed his eyes on him seriously. “Do they intrude on your thoughts when you mean not to think of them? Does the thought of them make you smile warmly and ache coldly at the same time?”

Enjolras wished he could meet Grantaire’s eyes, but Straggletag could not do such things. He merely nodded.

“Then you are in love,” Grantaire said passionately. “We both are. And it’s as wonderful as it is terrible.”

Grantaire could not know what great confusion he was creating in Enjolras’ mind. Because how could he know he was speaking to his beloved whenever he sought out poor Straggletag in the scullery or pantry? He did not recognize in his accent the foreign language his scarlet-coated nobleman spoke and his voice sounded so different, his appearance was so opposite and his eyes so stubbornly cast down, the king did not stand a chance of finding out.

Naturally the court was expecting another ball, but the king seemed strangely unwilling to give another one.

Enjolras did not understand it. The more time passed, the harder he wished for another ball and every time he spoke to the king that desire grew. Because perhaps Grantaire was right, perhaps they were both in love, but Straggletag could not be in love with the king and until there was another ball, that was who he had to be.

Then at last, at last there was talk of a ball in the palace again. There was to be a third, more splendid even than the first two, with twice as many invitations being sent out abroad, and Enjolras’ heart thumped wildly in his chest. But how terrible, the night of the ball all eyes seemed to be on poor Straggletag. There was not a single a quiet moment in which he could slip away and change his clothes.

“The king has wandered out onto the terrace,” one of the servants hurrying into the kitchen announced regretfully. “He will not dance with anyone and the stranger still hasn’t come.”

Enjolras felt the strangest coil of panic settle in stomach at the idea that Grantaire might think he did not want to see him again. But there was nothing he could do but wait. Mercifully there was a moment of quiet soon after that and Straggletag ran off as silently as his hurrying feet would allow. He washed and dressed and hastened to attend the ball, but upon entering the ballroom he was startled beyond belief. Two young men were walking arm in arm, one smiling softly, the other laughing brilliantly, and Enjolras was sure he knew them from back home. They were young nobles, intelligent and friendly and probably very capable of recognizing him. There were already too many eyes on him, too many gazes fixed on the scarlet coat and whispers being muttered behind elegant hands. Enjolras fled out the glass doors and onto the terrace, where he nearly ran into Grantaire.

“You came!” And the smile on his face was brighter than all the glittering lights of the palace.

“I did not mean to be so late,” Enjolras said, colouring deeply.

“Oh, no, I should thank you,” Grantaire shook his head. “I am always frightfully tardy and heartily deserve being made to suffer like I make my friends do so often.”

“I did not mean to make you suffer though,” Enjolras said earnestly.

Grantaire smiled strangely and held out his arm. “Will you dance with me again?”

Enjolras took his arm, but said nervously: “Perhaps we could walk the gardens instead?”

Of course Grantaire agreed and he lead Enjolras down the steps and into the gardens, where they walked the shadowy groves, deep in conversation. They moved as fluently and as complementary as if they were dancing and they forgot the time as easily. Three times Grantaire begged to know the name of his companion, three times his questions were evaded.

But then they were evaded with such pleasant speeches that Grantaire could not resent it.

They rambled about until they had left the garden and entered the larger pleasure grounds and Grantaire began to hint that they might have to turn back.

“If that is what you wish,” Enjolras said disappointedly. He had not felt this free in a very long time.

Grantaire was hasty in his apologies. He would not stop this walk for the world, but he was afraid of leading his companion too far away and of spoiling his fine clothes.

“Let us go down this slope,” Enjolras said. “Then we can turn back.”

“It is steeper than it looks,” Grantaire warned him.

“Then I shall take off my coat so I can move properly,” Enjolras said and not minding the bright blush on Grantaire’s face, he took off his scarlet coat, hung it from a nearby branch and caught Grantaire’s hand, pulling him down the slope.

They slipped and stumbled all the way down until they were panting and laughing. And Grantaire might have thought he was dreaming, to be rambling the woods with so beautiful a young man in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Even the moon freed herself from the clouds to cast silver light down through the branches and perhaps Grantaire was just a little too distracted. Because somewhere far off a bell tolled and in a single moment of confusion Enjolras’ hand slipped off his arm and a second later he was gone. Disappeared between the trees, run off into the dark.

Grantaire called for him, but he did not even know what to call out and finally he turned, with sombre steps, back to the top of the slope. Where he found, to his genuine shock, that the scarlet coat still hung on a branch.

~

If it had not been for the grey ash on his cheeks, Enjolras’ face would have been as red as his lost coat when he heard the royal proclamation, shouted about as it was for all to hear.

It proclaimed that the king wished everyone to know that he thought the young man he had met at his assemblies indispensable to the future of the kingdom and that, therefore, the young man who fit the scarlet coat, would be offered a position at court.

“All sorts will be coming to try it on from all over, wait and see,” the cook shook her head.

Enjolras said nothing. He had gone through all this trouble to get away from his own court. What position at court could he possibly hold and be happy with? An advisor? It wasn’t possible. Someone was bound to recognize him eventually. But Grantaire… But the catches of breath and the drifting thoughts...

Someone else would probably fit his coat, it was only a piece of clothing after all. Enjolras wondered how long Grantaire would keep searching. Would Grantaire even recognize him if he came to claim the coat? He had never done so before. But then again, Enjolras had never given him a fair chance.

Days went by and Enjolras’ head stayed full of doubts. Luckily he did not have to ask how the fittings were going, because the footmen running down to the kitchen were more than happy to talk about it.

“So many of them have come and gone, but that coat fit none of them! You should see the disappointment on all their noble faces.”

And Enjolras hardly knew why, but under the cover of laughter he slipped out of the kitchens. How would Grantaire react if Straggletag came to try the coat? His proclamation had been very clear, it addressed _everybody_. There had been no commoners to try on the coat yet, perhaps none of them had wanted to, perhaps none of them had dared, but Enjolras could still hear Grantaire’s voice in his memory: _“Were he in the humblest rags, were he the poorest. I would still be drawn to him—”_

Nobody stopped him when he walked into the throne room where the fittings took place. Nobody even looked round when he did so. Not even Grantaire, who was in conversation with a very handsome young man who was studying the scarlet coat with a critical eye.

“I know it wasn’t you, Montparnasse,” Grantaire spoke amusedly.

“And I’m not saying that it was,” Montparnasse replied lightly. “All I am saying is that this would fit me. Not that I’d _want_ to wear it, garish colour.”

“And what would you want with a position at court?” Grantaire laughed. “You’ve never welcomed a responsibility in your life.”

“Oh, I’m truly wounded, said the kettle to the pot,” Montparnasse drawled. He raised an arch eyebrow. “And I don’t know about that… there is one positions at your court I’d like to fill.”

“A place at Jehan Prouvaire’s side is not mine to give,” Grantaire said, smiling slightly when Montparnasse’s posture changed, just a little less confident and a little more cautious.

“It is yours to sanction though,” he said.

“Hm,” Grantaire smirked. “If that is all, you can tell Jehan that anything _they_ ask for, they shall have.”

“That is certainly good to know,” Montparnasse smiled dazzlingly and he turned away from the coat, at the same time noticing Straggletag at the other end of the room. “My goodness, how do you let your servants clothe themselves, Grantaire?”

A courtier came hurrying immediately to shoo him away, but Straggletag raised his voice boldly:

“I have come to try on the coat.”

Some of the courtiers laughed, but Grantaire stepped forward immediately and spoke:

“Don’t turn him away! If Straggletag wants to try, that is his right.”

“Your Majesty, you can’t be serious,” the courtier sneered, but Grantaire’s face was full of indignation.

“For once I most certainly am! And what’s more, if the coat fits him, he shall have any position at court he likes. Any new position I should say, for he has a position at court, and he is greatly valued in it.”

That speech made the courtiers fall silent and it brought such a glow to Enjolras’s heart that he lifted up his head and let his eyes meet Grantaire’s.

Grantaire froze and stared, dumbfounded. The courtiers looked at one another in uncertainty, but Montparnasse smiled thinly and gestured to the footman holding the coat. “I think you’d better bring that over.”

“Yes, the coat…” Grantaire stammered, not taking his eyes off Enjolras. “Bring…bring the coat.”

Enjolras felt like his heart had never beat so fast as when he changed his rags for his very own scarlet coat, in front of Grantaire’s shining eyes.

The coat fit, but neither Grantaire nor Enjolras paid any attention to that anymore. In two seconds Grantaire was in front of Enjolras and clutching at his hands and there was so much surprise and happiness between them that they forgot there were even other people present.

There was such explaining to be done. And – at last – introductions to be made. Enjolras talked of impending coronations, of ash rubbed onto glowing cheeks, of confused feelings and sleepless nights. Grantaire talked eloquently of friendship, stammered awkwardly about love and detailed nights equally sleepless.

It was a long time, very long, before either of them fell silent for a while and then Grantaire began anew, suddenly cautious:

“According to my proclamation you are now owed a place at court.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said and he smiled, because he had never felt so much like smiling in all his life.

Grantaire looked at him, almost anxiously. “What position would be to your liking?”

Enjolras did not yet look quite like himself. His hair was uncombed and his coat looked strange worn over Straggletag’s rags. But he _felt_ like himself and sure of himself, for the first time in a very long time. “I would like whatever position allows me to kiss the King.”

There was no answer that could possibly have made Grantaire happier and there had never been a kiss that had been so much thought upon and dreamt about beforehand.

It was quite a while before they tired of kisses, in fact they did not tire of them at all. But at length they did at least manage to start alternating the kisses with conversation once more and this was a very good thing, because there was a great deal more to be discussed. Starting, of course, with the peculiar circumstance that they were a king and a crown prince and both exceedingly lacking in a desire to rule…

~

Picture the joy at the court when the lost Prince Enjolras returned home. The regent was so relieved to see his nephew back and in good health and good spirits, that he behaved much less like a regent and much more like an uncle. Imagine his pleasant surprise, then, when Enjolras informed him that not only was he ready to take the throne, but that he had lately gotten engaged to someone of royal blood.

He was rather less pleased when this fiancé turned out to be the neighbouring king, which meant a great entanglement of the royal families and a very worrying prospect of the two countries possibly having to merge. This notion was reacted to with much shuffling of feet and furrowing of brows, at both courts, feelings to which both Enjolras and Grantaire reacted with wide-eyed surprise and very badly hidden smiles.

It is possible, therefore, that it was not a very big surprise that very soon after the royal fiancés announced that if there were any objections to the two monarchies being united, there were, of course, ways to prevent this. Starting with the dismantling of said monarchies. It really does not do any good to dwell on this though, for these are matters of politics and they are frightfully dull.

All that still remains to be said is that when Enjolras married Grantaire – and he most certainly did – it was not a royal wedding, but an exceedingly happy one all the same. The happiness lasted, as happiness drawn from mutual affection often does, and it made everyone they collected around them happy as well. Because in place of a sad prince and an apathetic king there was now a couple of bright young men looking towards an even brighter future. And anyone unsatisfied with such a happy ending to such a sad beginning is surely not worth telling stories to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my second 'fandom fairy tale', if you have any suggestions for a third...I'm interested.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Straggletag [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15281724) by [orestesdreamspyladesloves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orestesdreamspyladesloves/pseuds/orestesdreamspyladesloves)




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